a.m. workout

Before you begin:  Wake up too early, consume two cups of coffee; throw on some sweats and a hat that covers your ears; and this is crucial: select ideal i-pod playlist.

1. Begin with slow warm up

2. Pick up pace, change direction

3. Increase water intake

4. ... and your heart rate

5. Stretch

6. Illuminate from within

7. Bend downward

8. Move forward with intensity

9. Don't bother the other athletes

10. Remember good posture

11. Breathe in

12. Breathe out

13. Listen to your inner voice

14. Cool down with a little slow spinning

15. Lower your heart rate

16. Stop and smell the flowers


Repeat 10 times: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oqi7-2EPGv8

happy birthday, art carney!

When you're stuck in the routine, depressed, slightly peeved, or just plain bored, nothing will snap you out of it like a dose of good comedy. And by good I mean, of course, The Honeymooners. This clip's wonderful in its entirety, but if you're in a hurry, skip to 1:10 — best physical comedy ever! Art Carney/Ed Norton, I salute you! (oh, and Jackie Gleason, you're not so bad yourself!)

kids' night out

It's Friday night. Son (17) drove daughter (14) into town — a 45-minute commute. Before they left, they called me at work, politely asking for advances on babysitting income, gas money, dinner funds. I mean, really. Do I only exist to prepare balanced meals, pack lunches, and shell out the bucks? Nah. I love that they like to hang out together, and that big bro will look out for little sis. They'll have a blast. They work hard and deserve this. Downside: mom spends Friday night solo eating chips & dip for dinner and, uh, pouring more drivel into her blog page.

But I miss them. Yes, I worry ... and I'm hugging them a little tighter this week. My son's friend was in a  car wreck the other day. He and his passenger were lucky to crawl from the car unscathed, but the kid (a really good boy) will lose his license for a year for being underage and driving a minor. Another acquaintance is dealing with a teenage pregnancy. Yet my children are both in good places right now. My son has embarked on his first romantic relationship. This girl's parents won't let her date or go to dances, so the two pretty much see each other at school and talk on the phone — the ideal girlfriend, in my book! When her cell phone died, he valiantly made arrangements to get her a replacement, confirming my inherent belief he is just a good boy, through and through. And now I know he has the capacity to feel true love (or something like it). Heartwarming to see the boy so happy — he actually has a little kick in his step (for my son, this is saying a lot!) Another milestone in the life of a boy who only yesterday was told he was going to have a baby sister. He vetoed our suggestions for child-to-be names in favor of his pick: "Zuzu." We had a conversation the other day that included the word condom. I took it as a personal victory.

My daughter — I've said it before and I'll say it again — is a ray of sunshine. She was recently voted freshman homecoming princess. I don't hold much stake in that title — in my high school days this honor was reserved for the hottest, bitchiest girl in school who'd just die if forced to speak to someone in my lowly circles. But the internal light my daughter possesses is infectious, and her classmates have surely experienced it too. I love that when I drove her to the game in her sparkling dress and straight-from-the-salon up-do, she directed me not to the football field where all the action was, but to the other side of parking lot to meet her best friend — not the most glamorous girl on campus, but most likely the sweetest and most genuine. Together they would trek to the festivities from there. If I've raised my girl to value kindness over snobbery in choosing her friends, I think I've done a pretty good job. She's the real deal and I couldn't be more proud.

Treasured moments with each of them come fewer and further between these days. But I hold on to these truths: My son WILL watch an entire Christopher Guest movie with me. My daughter and I WILL shop 'till we drop together. And there's always the dinner table. These random snapshots are precious — and all to soon will be nothing but sweet memories. Just gotta make sure they're all recorded on the memory card as they happen. For now, I sit, wait, and worry.

Just noticed it's raining out there. Make that WORRY ...

Toxic

I always had a more than competent man in my life to handle things like automobile maintenance, indoor plumbing, broken door knobs, a bad fuse. But on my own it's a  major challenge just mounting a frame on a wall — I'm deathly afraid of my own power drill.

The ultimate feeble single mom moment came last week. It was we-haul-away-everything trash day and I had a dewsy. Months earlier (could it even have been a year?) I sorted through boxes of family photographs for choice images to scan and put on a photo disc. The task was happily completed, but what to do with all of the rejects? I started to throw them away, but the rubbermaid container I dumped them in was soooo heavy. Also it'd be like throwing away memories — not the picture-perfect ones — but memories just the same. And where to put it? I have a small living space: no garage, and only a small storage closet on the side of my house, currently overflowing with Christmas and Halloween decorations. It sat under my back porch for, um, over a year.

Months ago I was in the backyard, noticed the container, and lifted the lid. It was just after a hard rain and water had seeped in. The pics were ruined, and the box was really heavy. Why I didn't deal with it at the time, I don't know, but I reduced the situation to a note to self: drain container and put out on big-item trash day.

Three big-item trash days later was Thursday of last week. I wish I could describe the stench that eluded from that rubbermaid container as I tipped it over in the backyard. Who knew that a combination of acetate and standing water could create something so toxic? It filled the yard and house, I couldn't get it off my hands, and the kids were gagging. I hauled the noxious two-ton container the edge of the curb. Surely the trashmen would permanently remove it from our lives.  I got some on my pants and shoes and smelled it all day.

Later that morning I get a call at work from my property manager. Mission Disposal informed my landlords they wouldn't pick up the potentially toxic material. The property manager said the owners wanted me to know never to put anything like that out in the trash again and suggested I take it to a toxic waste facility. Yeah, like when will I have time to do that? I was sure they were all convinced I was operating a meth lab from my home.  I sat there at my desk and cried. I was mad at myself, my situation. Toxic seemed a most accurate term for everything in my life at that particular moment in time.

After writing this shitty first draft last night, I got up, turned around, and noticed a framed photo of my brother —  his high school senior portrait. Gosh, I miss him! Here I am whining about taking out the trash, when he was forced to endure toxicities of the most horrible kind. Living with full blown AIDS for almost 10 years, he transitioned from one "cocktail" to the next when the drugs became ineffective, brought his oxygen tank to work just so he could function, and endured months at a time of not working when the disease became really bad — all pretty much on his own with a couple of major heartbreaks along the way. In the end, along with the frustrations of his rapidly deteriorating mind and body and loss of independence (by nature he was independent to a fault), he had to come to terms with his inevitable demise — where would he be when this was all over?

So I wonder, who's more oppressed? The sufferers of AIDS, cancer, heart conditions, physical abuse, etc. etc. who are going through more than their share of hell on earth? Or we, the survivors, who must  exhibit strength during their pain, and in worse-case-scenario carry on feeling the constant void of their absence? I'm thinking the former. Life is rough and sometimes all I can do is cry at my desk. But I have my health, and for some reason my God's given me the the means to enjoy awesome sunset at the end of the day, a cool glass of wine, the daily joys my children give me, family that's there for me no matter what, creative outlets, romance, meaningful chats with my girlfriends, good food, great music. I think it's called grace.

I called the toxic waste facility and asked if they'd accept the stinky package. "That's just acetate. We don't consider it toxic," he said, "Just put it in a sealed bag in your regular trash can and they'll take it." Which they did when I put it out a few days ago (in an anonymous dumpster in town, haha!)

So NOT toxic. Sometimes words of wisdom from come from the unlikeliest of sources. Thanks for the reality check, toxic waste facility guy.

Seventeen Stringent Requirements

Hollywood's finest example

So many blog topics have crossed my brain this week, many of them bordering on profound. Ah, the untapped potential of the unwritten blog! But as I finally have time to sit here and purge, it's come to down to my favorite guilty pleasure next to chocolate and white wine. You see there's this guy ...

I run the risk of gushing like "13-year-old girl with first crush" in describing how high above the water he walks. It's been a year-and-a half and he continues to be everything I haven't settled for in past relationships. But I must use caution in adding masculine presences into my own personal world — I've been third-degree burned more than once. Yet, thanks to this man — and a couple of really nice guys I dated before him — I know exactly what I want in a significant other. I'll even grant a worthy nod to my less-than-stellar exes for helping me confirm what I don't want. To this end, I present the following in no particular order:

17 Man Musts:

1. He must build me up, not tear me down. Tearing down doesn't necessarily refer to blatant bad behavior like intense physical or verbal abuse, although those things are certainly included. It's more day-to-day little jabs, often disguised in humor, where I am the butt of the joke. Not cool.

2. He must be honest with me. He understands I'm too intelligent to be told white lies to spare my feelings. He knows I need to be able to trust him completely.

3. He must be cool. Not trying to prove to the world that he's cool, but actually cool. And believe it himself.

4. He must be smart. I'm talking way above average intelligence. And although he might be angered by people who profess wisdom without the facts to back themselves up (narrow-mindedness) — he must never make me or anyone else feel they are of inferior intelligence.

5. He's gotta make me laugh. Intelligent humor edges out silliness, but both are welcomed. Ability to laugh at himself is a plus. He laughs with me, not at me.

6. He must be generous. He is a giver, not a taker. He gives generously to charities and puts others above himself, especially those less fortunate.

7. He must be passionate, creative, and inspired on a daily basis. He seeks new experiences to expand his passions. He must have an awesome iTunes library.

8. He must respect me completely and is kind to my friends and family.

9. He speaks well of me to his friends and family. He would never think to put me down.

10. He must be handsome and know he's attractive without being conceited. He takes good care of his mind and body without compulsion. As gorgeous as he is, he makes me feel I'm the pretty one in the relationship.

11. He lets me express my need for him without making me feel I'm needy.

12. He supports my plight and listens when I need to vent. He is always on my side, and seizes opportunities to assist when I'm in need.

13. He lets me know he appreciates the little things I do for him.

14. He is not afraid to admit his fears and insecurities. He trusts me enough to share them with me on a deeper level.

15. He works to maintain his friendships and is always there for his family.

16. He seeks ways to get closer to his God and make sense of his place in the world.

17. Like my own father, he must be a beautiful man. I don't really know how to describe this, but I know it when I see it.


Come to think of it, I've always possessed an internal man list similar to this one. But because of what really amounts to my own insecurities, I've settled for way less than the above ideal, hoping the man in my life would just somehow "evolve" into the man of my dreams. No, no one is perfect, but after 46 years of making the same mistake, I'm here to tell you: stick to your list. Add to it if you must. And if someone steps up to the plate lacking an item or two, don't let him play. You're better off solo. Life is too short to be with a guy who makes you curl up into a ball and cry on the bathroom floor.

Weighing in at Marshall's

Thanks to my good friend denial I'm relatively sane most of the time. Stupidly happy really works for me. But in my quest for all things positive, I've also been guilty of failing to deal with some significant, somber truths in my world. Major case in point: pretending my marriage of 15 years was great, when in actually, it was crumbling from the start. But I digress in the first paragraph.

Ever since I can remember I've been under the assumption I can take pretty much anything I like off the rack in a department store and it will look good on me. I'm far from athletic, but I have been blessed with a little height and good metabolism, and I exercise damn near daily. No big deal if I gain a pound or ten.  And I prefer shopping in the juniors department — everyone knows clothes are cuter and trendier there.

That's how it's always been. That is, until last week. After a three-month bender of more than a single glass of wine after work; ample supplies of chips, mashed potatoes, cookies, truffles after dinner, chocolate in desk drawer, dinners out — not to mention my new love affair with exotic cheeses — I felt  (in search of a better descriptive term) FAT.

I was school clothes shopping with my extremely cute and skinny 14-year-old daughter, who can pretty much wear a pencil cozy and look adorable in it. We decided to split up at the store — each of us finding clothes for ourselves. But I may as well have wandered over to the camping aisle to find a family-sized tent —every garment in the store was clearly designed to outfit the cast of "America's Top Model." Visions of futile attempts to squeeze into skinny jeans and spaghetti arms bulging from tight t-shirts were just too much for me to take this day. Where was reliable denial when I needed her? The time had come to face facts: I'm 46, and should now dress appropriately for my age — and girth.

I switched gears. Gave up on finding clothes for myself and started on a mad quest for things that would look stunning on my daughter. Size 3 jeans, fitted tank tops, short shorts — no worries. It was liberating, really. That's when I made the crossover. Saturday, August 21 ... at Marshall's.

Later that day we went to a mall. (The girl didn't see a thing she liked at Marshall's.)  We ended up at one of those sparsely-lit stores with loud, thumping rap music and black walls. They spotlight the clothes who are screaming, "see me,  buy me." Awesome marketing strategy that works like a charm as evidenced by the long lines at the dressing rooms and cash register. My every instinct told me to get out of there (I really hate loud, thumping rap music!), until one of my great joys in life — people-watching — kicked in. Moms and daughters. Or should I say, fat moms and skinny daughters. Fat moms frantically toiling in their desperate attempts to find just the right outfits for their pencil-thin offspring. Servicing their girls in the dressing rooms. Waiting in line. Paying. Oh God, I'd become one of them — about an hour earlier at a store called Marshall's.

"What size am I?" she says holding a pair of jeans at the black store. "I think you're now a size 5," I say. I wait for her to try them on like the fat, patient mom I am. (In this store I'd be a size 305!) She comes out and says, "They didn't fit." "Really? The size 5?" I say. "No, I tried on a 3." ... The cycle of denial continues ...

eighties greaties

So glad I rediscovered this. For a time just after high school, this one was heavy on my playlist. Randomly concise lyrics, no accompaniment needed. And what a voice! Sweet, simple, haunting. I love that MTV considered it hip enough to include it on regular rotation. They also put out a boombox music mix of Tom's Diner, which I gotta admit was cool, but nothing can compare to the bare-bones original. Sublime.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z66rDVkaK4w

Tom's Diner by Suzanne Vega